Aching trees
lean by degrees
where we wheeze
on a sunny, blue day.

Cultivate these
staccato green reeds
til they shoot for the moon:
inkwell and nib.

Blackening thumb
to a sky with grey sun;
throat hums from endeavour
in agnostic weather.

Age is a question
to each predilection,
where the wise are ornate,
books piled to a gate.

The walls have a rhythm
under hands full of vision
now you sleep and
we cry all the smarter.